The Gladiator

Chapter IX

The following day, Spartacus did not bother with breakfast. Having an empty stomach might give him an advantage over Crixus. Even a tiny detail such as that could tip the balance between failure and success. Before leaving his cell, he’d warmed up and oiled his muscles. He sat with Getas, Seuthes, Carbo and six other Thracians, watching the Gaul and his cronies shovelling down porridge. Eat as much as your belly will hold, you pig.

Spartacus had been slightly surprised by Ariadne’s lack of protest at his decision. Whether it was because of her ordeal at Phortis’ hands, he did not know. Whatever the reason, it had been a relief. With thoughts of the escape occupying his every moment, Spartacus had been pleased not to have one more thing to consider. It was bad enough that his dream about the snake had recurred overnight. Unsettled, Spartacus shoved away an image of him being choked to death by Crixus, not the serpent.

‘Wish me good fortune,’ he said. The shock etched on all their faces rammed home to Spartacus that they all thought he might fail. His determination redoubled. ‘Come on,’ he said, leading the way.

There was a rush to join him. Everyone knew his job. They’d already discussed making sure that Crixus’ men did not intervene. Feeling the rush of adrenalin and the sweaty palms that accompanied an entrance into battle, Spartacus nodded grimly at Getas and Seuthes, who were to guard Ariadne. Then he swaggered over to where Crixus sat.

His followers jumped to their feet but Crixus did not budge from his seat. He glowered at Spartacus. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

Guide my way, Great Rider. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’

Crixus’ lip curled. ‘What makes you think I’d be interested?’

‘Because you only have to agree to it if I beat you in single combat, with no weapons.’

Crixus’ grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘Spit it out.’

Raising his hands peacefully, Spartacus moved closer. ‘Many of us are planning to escape from the ludus,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I want you to join us.’

A mixture of emotions flitted Crixus’ face. Disbelief. Shock. Jealousy. Anger. ‘What, with you as leader?’

‘No. Each fighter follows the man he’s loyal to.’

‘Who else is taking part?’

‘Oenomaus, Gavius and nearly all the Thracians. About a hundred and twenty men.’

‘Castus? Gannicus?’

Spartacus shook his head.

‘Understandable really,’ sneered Crixus. ‘Who’d want to join with a pack of savages?’

His men snickered with amusement.

‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ replied Spartacus equably. ‘Would your answer change if I best you in a fight?’

‘If that happens, I’d follow you into a sewer.’ Crixus’ laugh came from deep in his belly.

‘I won’t ask you to do that. We fight until one man submits, eh?’

‘Sounds good to me. I’ve been looking forward to this for an age,’ snarled Crixus, standing. He waved his arms. ‘Get out of the damn way!’

As the nearby Gauls scrambled to obey, Spartacus ran straight at at Crixus. He’d covered the distance between them in two heartbeats. Before Crixus could even react, Spartacus’ head smashed into his belly. There was an audible whoosh as all the air left Crixus’ lungs. They fell to the sand in a tangle of limbs, with Spartacus on top. He scrabbled to get up. Winded or not, Crixus was very dangerous. He was already trying to enfold him in the circle of his great arms. If that happened, the fight would be over.

Shoving away Crixus’ forearms, Spartacus began to roll away. He had the time to plant a fist in the Gaul’s groin before he stood. A loud groan told him that he’d hit the spot. He crouched, wondering if he could get in a kick to the head, but Crixus was already sitting up. Utter fury twisted his handsome face. ‘You dirty Thracian bastard! The fight hadn’t started!’

‘There’s no summa rudis here. No rules either,’ taunted Spartacus. He wanted to really rile Crixus. An angry man was more likely to make mistakes.

Getas and Seuthes whooped in encouragement.

‘That’s how it is, eh? I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out,’ shouted Crixus. ‘You’ll submit quick enough then.’

His men roared their approval.

‘You think? Come and try!’

Furious, Crixus charged forward like a rampaging wild boar and they clinched together like two lovers. At once Spartacus was grateful for the wrestling holds taught to him by a Greek mercenary with whom he’d served in Bithynia. Crixus was far stronger than he. Spartacus’ skill — and the slippery oil that coated his skin — was all that saved him from defeat in the moments that followed. They grappled to and fro, arms locked, with their faces locked in savage grimaces. Bent on revenge, Crixus aimed a knee at Spartacus’ crotch, but Spartacus was able to block it with a hastily raised thigh.

‘Your balls hurting still?’ jibed Spartacus.

‘Not half as much as yours will when I get to them!’ With a great heave, Crixus threw Spartacus to one side. Caught off balance, he stumbled and went down. Crixus was on him like a raging beast, throwing body punches that sent waves of searing agony through Spartacus’ every fibre. Trying to ignore the pain, he swiftly planted a leg against Crixus’ muscular belly. Gripping the Gaul by the shoulders of his tunic, Spartacus threw him to one side.

Incredibly, Crixus got up quicker than Spartacus could. Spartacus was on his knees still when the Gaul came barrelling in and struck him in the face with one of his enormous fists. Spartacus felt his nose split like an overripe plum, heard the crunch as the tissue within broke. Driven back on to the sand by the force of the blow, he bellowed with the pain of it. Pausing only to kick Spartacus a few times, Crixus leaped on top of him again. His fingers clawed towards Spartacus’ face. ‘I’m going to tear your fucking eyes out of your head!’

Spartacus was half blinded by blood and in complete agony. He also knew that if Crixus locked his thumbs into his eye sockets, the game was up. There had been occasions when he’d used the tactic himself, and it was brutally effective. Spartacus wondered if Crixus would stop once he’d ripped out his eyeballs? Probably not. The thought of living out his life as a blinded cripple, or dying right now, filled him with utter desperation.

Drawing up his arms inside those of Crixus, Spartacus whipped them sideways with all the strength in his body. Unprepared for such a move, Crixus toppled down on top of him. Spartacus sank his teeth into the first part of the Gaul’s flesh that met his lips. It happened to be his nose. Spartacus bit down as hard as he could, worrying it as a dog does a rat. He was dimly aware of Crixus screaming and raining weakened punches on his unprotected abdomen, but he did not release his grip. Take that, you bastard!

Somehow, cold reason penetrated the red mist that coated Spartacus’ consciousness. If I bite off half his nose, the prick will never join us. He unclamped his jaws, and Crixus reared back, showering him in gore. Spartacus heaved over on to his side, and struggled free from the other’s grip. There was no resistance. Scrambling up, he wiped the blood from his eyes. Three steps away, Crixus was climbing to his feet, clutching his ruined nose with one hand. ‘I’ll kill you!’ he snarled.

This was his best chance. For all his noise, Crixus was hurting badly. Spartacus twisted and danced, aiming punches at the Gaul’s belly. Crixus blocked them and threw a couple of immense blows with his free hand. Spartacus let one land, grunting with the shock of it. Another one quickly followed, striking his wounded arm. The pain was overwhelming, and Spartacus’ vision blurred for a moment. Come on! Shaking his head, he stayed where he was. The punishment had to be endured. Managing to stoop under Crixus’ swinging fists a moment later, he enveloped the Gaul with both his arms. Taking all of the other’s weight on his right hip, and ignoring the agony radiating from his wound, Spartacus flung him bodily to the sand.

Crixus landed face first, and it was Spartacus’ turn to jump on top. Sitting on the Gaul’s back, he shoved his right arm around the other’s neck. Grasping his right hand with his left, he took Crixus in a chokehold. As his grip tightened, his arm formed a ‘V’ shape around the Gaul’s windpipe, blocking it entirely. A horrible rattling sound left Crixus’ lips, and his arms flailed about, trying to reach Spartacus. His attempts were futile, and it didn’t take more than a dozen heartbeats before his great strength began to leave him. The flesh on the back of his neck turned dark red.

Spartacus could only imagine what Crixus’ face looked like.

Still the Gaul didn’t give in.

You stupid, stupid bastard, thought Spartacus. He glanced quickly to either side. The faces of the watching Gauls were aghast, stricken with horror, while those of his men were filled with triumph. Killing the big ox won’t help our cause! Gods above, but he hadn’t considered this option. I can’t let him live, though. He’ll try to kill me the first moment he can. Expertly, Spartacus tightened his hold even further. Choose your own death then. I’ll have to convince Castus and Gannicus some other way.

Then Crixus’ left hand rose weakly into the air. The forefinger extended upward, in the appeal for mercy. Spartacus didn’t quite believe his eyes, didn’t trust Crixus even now. ‘Do you yield?’ he roared.

The finger rose a fraction higher, before the whole arm flopped back on to the sand.

‘Let him go!’ roared a Gaul.

‘You’ve killed him!’ yelled another.

With great care, Spartacus released his grip around Crixus’ neck. The Gaul slumped down and did not move. Great Rider, keep him alive! Climbing off, Spartacus rolled his opponent over on to his back. He was shocked by Crixus’ appearance. The Gaul’s face was a shocking purple colour. A steady stream of blood ran from the dreadful wound on his nose, which was covered in sand. His eyes were glassy and the whites had turned scarlet. His engorged tongue protruded from fat, sausage-like lips, and there was a reddened ring around his neck, marking where Spartacus’ hold had been.

‘Get some water!’ shouted Spartacus. He slapped Crixus across the cheeks.

There was no initial response, but a moment later, the Gaul coughed weakly.

Spartacus could have cheered.

Someone — Spartacus was vaguely surprised that it was Restio, the betmaker, because he hadn’t been present initially — handed him a leather water bag, and he emptied it over Crixus’ head.

The Gaul’s eyes came back into focus. He coughed again and rubbed at his neck.

‘Damn sore, I’d say,’ said Spartacus, noticing for the first time that the wound on the back of his right arm was bleeding. ‘You should have given in sooner. You’re as stubborn as a mule.’

‘I’ve never lost a fight,’ said Crixus in wonderment. His voice had a new, gravelly timbre to it.

‘There’s always a first time,’ replied Spartacus, still trying to gauge what the Gaul’s response would be. ‘I’m not quite sure how I did it.’

‘By being the dirtiest bastard in Italy,’ retorted Crixus, gingerly touching his nose.

‘That was the hardest fight I’ve ever had,’ said Spartacus. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but that wasn’t what was important. Getting Crixus to honour his word was. ‘You’re like Hercules himself.’

‘Hercules didn’t lose,’ Crixus grunted irritably.

Spartacus’ heart beat a little faster, and he leaned closer. ‘About my proposition,’ he said in a low voice.

Restio nudged the Gaul beside him. ‘What’s he talking about?’

He was ignored.

‘I’m a man of honour. I lost the fight, so me and my lot will join you,’ growled Crixus.

‘Good.’ I can’t trust him one iota, thought Spartacus. But at least the bastard has agreed to come on board. Sensing the silence, he scanned the yard. Unsurprisingly, all eyes — even those of the guards — were on them. Phortis was only twenty steps or so away. ‘We’re being watched. Act as I do,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘That will teach you to insult my people!’ he yelled. ‘Watch your mouth in future. D’you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ muttered Crixus furiously. He appeared entirely convincing, and Spartacus jerked his head at his men. ‘Let’s go.’

He was pleased to notice Phortis, looking furious, turn away and resume his conversation with one of the trainers. With luck, the Capuan would regard the fight as nothing more than a brawl between two of the best gladiators.

Now all he had to do was persuade the other Gauls to take part.

Preoccupied, Spartacus did not notice Restio scurry away from the crowd.

Rather than go to the surgeon to have his injury tended, Spartacus headed straight for the baths. He’d seen Castus and Gannicus heading in there with a bunch of their men. ‘Carbo, come with me,’ he ordered when they’d reached the door. ‘The rest of you, stay here.’

Carbo was thrilled to be picked, but his stomach twisted with tension. This could get very nasty.

‘Once we’re out, where’s the best place for us to head?’ Spartacus’ attention was already focused on the men within the changing room. They moved out of his way, and he smiled, aware that with the blood covering much of his face, he must look outlandish. There was no sign of the Gaulish leaders, which meant that they’d already progressed into the tiled bathing area.

I can be useful to him! I know the whole region. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Somewhere secure. Hard to reach. Easily defendable. A mountain, or perhaps a forest.’ Once we’re there we can decide what to do.

‘Vesuvius.’

Spartacus looked at him blankly.

‘The flat-topped peak that’s visible to the south of here. The lower slopes are farmed, but not many people visit the summit. It’s supposed to be one of Vulcan’s resting places.’

A memory tugged at Spartacus, but, feeling impatient, he took no notice. ‘It sounds perfect. What about the surrounding countryside?’

‘It’s mostly full of latifundia.’ He saw Spartacus’ interest. ‘They’d be easy pickings.’

‘Good.’ Spartacus beckoned him closer. ‘Castus and Gannicus need to be persuaded that joining us would be a good idea. It’s your job to sell Vesuvius to them. Think you can do it?’

‘Yes,’ said Carbo confidently. This was no time to appear indecisive.

Spartacus clapped him on the arm. ‘Follow me.’

Ignoring the curious looks of the others present, the pair went into the frigidarium. The cold room was empty, so they moved on to the caldarium, which was packed. Ribald banter and gossip filled the muggy air. Men lounged about on the tiles or in the warm water, luxuriating in the heat. This was one of the few indulgences in the gladiators’ lives. Castus, a short man with bright red hair, was at one end of the pool with a number of his followers while Gannicus, moon-faced and jovial, occupied the opposite end with a gaggle of his. Both were studiously ignoring the other.

Spartacus strode to the midpoint of the pool so that the two leaders could see him.

All conversation ceased.

Spartacus leered. Blood had run from his nose down into his mouth, staining his teeth red. He’s like some kind of crazed demon, thought Carbo with a thrill of fear.

‘You think I look bad?’ Spartacus’ gaze moved from Castus to Gannicus and back again. ‘Ha! Take a peek at Crixus next time you see the prick.’

‘Why in Hades’ name did you pick a fight with him?’ asked Castus.

‘To make the fool see sense.’

‘Sense? Crixus?’ Gannicus tapped the side of his head. ‘Not much chance of that.’ He laughed, but there was no humour in his eyes.

‘My tactic worked.’

In the silence that followed, Carbo saw the two leaders lean forward with interest. He glanced at Spartacus, realising that his delay in continuing was deliberate.

‘Crixus has agreed to join me and Oenomaus,’ he said at last.

‘And you want us to take part too,’ said Gannicus softly. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

‘Yes.’

‘What will you do if we refuse?’ asked Castus.

‘Kill you both.’

Carbo shot a look at Spartacus. What’s he playing at? There are at least twenty Gauls present.

Castus’ nostrils pinched white. ‘You dare to threaten us in front of our men?’

‘We could have you slain on the spot,’ threatened Gannicus. His eyes flickered, and several Gauls took a step towards them.

Spartacus didn’t even turn his head, and Carbo marvelled at his cool. He was fighting an overwhelming urge to piss.

‘Killing us would be easy. I knew that when I walked in the door,’ revealed Spartacus. ‘But I came in with only Carbo because I know that you won’t want to miss out on our opportunity.’ He paused. ‘Did you know that Crassus is going to buy twenty gladiators from Batiatus? To fight in mortal combats?’

‘What?’ cried Castus. Despite his diminutive size, he was one of the top fighters in the ludus. Gannicus was also clearly unhappy. His expression was mirrored by many of the men around the pool.

‘Ask any of the guards.’

‘Supposing it’s true,’ said Castus. ‘Why would that make us join you? We have no weapons, and all Batiatus’ men have bows. It’d be a slaughter.’

‘No, it wouldn’t!’ Spartacus replied contemptuously. ‘What can thirty guards do if nearly two hundred gladiators set upon them? Fuck all! We will succeed.’

Castus and Gannicus stared at each other. Carbo could tell that neither wanted to make the first move. Yet the eager muttering that had broken out among their men had to be answered. He felt Spartacus nudge him. ‘Now’s your chance.’ Loudly, Spartacus said, ‘Listen to the new auctoratus. He’s a local.’

Carbo cleared his throat. ‘There’s a huge mountain not far from here. Vesuvius, it’s called. It’s flat-topped, and hard to climb. It would be a good place to hide out. The land around it is given over to large farms, which would provide us with plenty of food and equipment.’

‘And women!’ cried a Gaul.

Carbo gaped. He hadn’t considered that option, and didn’t know how to answer.

Spartacus did. This hadn’t been his game plan, but it was imperative that Castus and Gannicus gave him their support. ‘There’ll be lots of women to be had. Plump ones. Skinny ones. Field slaves. Domestic slaves. More than any of you can fuck!’

A vociferous growl of approval met these words.

‘Well, when you put it like that,’ said Gannicus, leering, ‘it’s hard to refuse.’

His men began to cheer.

Yes! Spartacus’ gaze swivelled to Castus, who shrugged. ‘I’m sure my lot wouldn’t want to miss out. Would you, lads?’

The walls resounded with the din of a score or more of men bellowing in unison.

Spartacus raised his hands and, to Carbo’s surprise, the noise diminished at once.

‘If Batiatus or Phortis hear a word of this, we’ll be royally fucked.’

‘My boys can keep their mouths shut,’ said Gannicus.

‘Mine too.’ Castus’ eyes reminded Carbo of a snake’s. ‘Anyone who doesn’t will end up with his throat cut.’

‘Excellent. We’ll talk later, before we’re locked in for the night.’

‘When do we make our move?’ asked Castus.

The room went deathly silent.

‘There’s no point hanging about,’ Spartacus replied. ‘Tomorrow or the next day.’

‘You move fast,’ said Castus.

‘It’s too dangerous to delay. There’s always at least one rat in the grain store.’

‘I know what you mean,’ growled Castus. ‘I vote for tomorrow.’

‘Me too,’ added Gannicus keenly.

‘I’m not going to argue with that. The moment that they hand out the practice weapons then,’ answered Spartacus with a tight smile. Thank you, Great Rider!

Carbo waited until they were safely outside before he said anything. ‘You promised them indiscriminate rape!’

‘Of course I did.’

‘That’s barbaric!’

Spartacus stopped dead in his tracks. ‘You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to, boy.’

Carbo’s heart pounded. He didn’t want to be left behind. ‘No. I’m coming,’ he muttered.

‘Fine. Next time I want advice on tactics, I’ll ask you.’

Carbo coloured, and said nothing.

‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t like the idea of it either. But it’s going to happen anyway, no matter what. I won’t encourage it, but that’s how war is. All I did was to use the idea to turn the tide in my favour. If I hadn’t, Castus and Gannicus could well have refused to join me.’ Spartacus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Us.’

‘I understand,’ said Carbo, feeling better.

Spartacus grinned. ‘Good.’

The hours that followed were the longest of Spartacus’ life. He did not want to be training, or running around the yard. Instead, he burned to be outside the high walls that surrounded him. Breathing the free air. Clapping his eyes on Vesuvius. He even pictured himself returning to Thrace. He had to make do with imagining it all, however. And trying not to dwell on his dream about the snake.

Spartacus waited until training was over for the day before talking to the Scythians who’d travelled with him from Illyria. While he wasn’t exactly friendly with them, Spartacus didn’t want the quartet to be completely in the dark about what would happen the next day. He approached them at the evening meal. To his surprise, the tattooed warriors greeted him with welcoming gestures. Spartacus didn’t know if they had learned sufficient Latin to understand his words, but their eager grunts of agreement soon proved different.

After dinner, it was as much as Spartacus could do to briefly talk with Oenomaus and Crixus before Phortis began ordering the gladiators back into their cells, much earlier than normal. Protests and curses filled the air. The Capuan’s reason, as he screamed repeatedly, was the three bodies that had been found in the toilets. Clearly, some men had given Castus and Gannicus cause for concern.

The best that Spartacus could manage was a meaningful look in Oenomaus’, Gavius’ and Crixus’ direction. He was reassured somewhat by the fierce grins that they flashed at him in return, but there had been no time to discuss who would do what when it all started. They’ll just have to follow my orders, he thought, praying that the five other leaders would comply. If one or more disagreed, it could prove disastrous.

Ariadne rushed to his side as he entered. ‘What’s been happening?’

‘A lot. Almost everyone is in. There should be around a hundred and eighty of us, all told.’ He threw her a smile. ‘More than enough.’

‘And the rest?’

‘We didn’t involve them. The stakes are too high. They don’t have standout leaders; they speak different languages. The room for misunderstanding is huge.’

‘That’s wise. When is it to be?’

‘In the morning, the moment that they distribute the practice weapons. There’s no point in waiting.’

‘That’s true. Seize the day,’ Ariadne said, yet inside, she was terrified. Protect us all, O Great Dionysus. Let us escape safely.

‘When it starts, you are to stay in here until I call you outside,’ Spartacus ordered. ‘Is that clear?’

‘I-’

‘No, Ariadne! It will be far too dangerous.’

Seeing the steel in his eyes, she nodded meekly. ‘Very well.’

‘By tomorrow evening, we’ll be sitting around a fire, enjoying our first night of freedom,’ Spartacus said confidently, refusing to imagine any other outcome.

Ariadne thought she was going to be sick. What if it all goes wrong?

‘Aren’t you pleased?’ Have you seen something? he wanted to ask.

‘I can’t wait,’ she managed. The gods grant that it will be so.

Spartacus did not ask why she was ill at ease. If I am to die tomorrow, I don’t want to know.

The next morning, the cock’s familiar crowing was most welcome. The waiting is almost over. Rolling over, Spartacus found Ariadne looking at him.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’ He scanned her face for clues. ‘Did anything come to you?’

‘No, nothing,’ she said lightly. My worries kept me tossing and turning instead. Yet, on this of all days, I have to show you the most confident face I have. ‘And you?’

‘No dreams that I can remember, thank the Rider.’ His lips quirked. ‘I was awake for much of the night. I fell asleep just before that damn bird started to call. I was glad to hear it, though. I couldn’t have taken much more in the way of killing time.’

‘I feel the same.’ Not until we are actually outside the ludus’ walls will I believe the gods are still with us.

‘If I am killed-’

‘Don’t talk like that.’ Her eyes brimmed with instant tears.

‘It’s stupid not to consider the possibility of my dying. If Getas and Seuthes aren’t also slain, they will look after you. Failing that, use the money in my purse to get to the east coast. Take a ship to Illyria, and make your way home to Thrace.’

‘To Kotys and the welcome he’ll give me?’ Ariadne replied, more harshly than she’d intended. ‘No thanks. I’ll use my snake on myself.’

‘You’re a true Thracian,’ he said respectfully. ‘I’m proud to have you as my wife.’

Ariadne blushed to the roots of her hair.

Clack, clack, clack. Phortis’ sword rattled off the bars of the cells on the far side of the yard. ‘Wake up, you whoresons! It’s another beautiful day.’

Spartacus sprang up off the bed. Throwing on his tunic, he waited patiently until the Capuan reached their barred window.

‘Pull your prick out of your woman, latro! It’s time to get up.’

Ariadne shuddered. The man was vile — less cold-blooded than her snake but, in his own way, as venomous.

Spartacus didn’t give Phortis the satisfaction of a reply. ‘Have you got my breakfast ready?’ he shouted.

A chorus of laughs rose up from the fighters within earshot.

‘Count yourself lucky that there’s any food at all!’ snapped Phortis. Unlocking the door, he moved on.

‘May the gods watch over you,’ whispered Ariadne.

‘Thank you.’ Spartacus gave her a broad smile, which belied his churning stomach. Stay by my side, Great Rider. Pushing wide the portal, he stepped into the yard. All around him, dozens of other gladiators were emerging from their cells. It was a crisp spring morning. The area of sky framed by the ludus’ high walls was entirely clear of cloud. Spartacus admired it. He had a good feeling in his guts.

‘Hungry?’

Turning, Spartacus saw Restio leaning against the wall. The Iberian’s face was an unhealthy grey colour, and he had big rings under his eyes. ‘You look awful. Didn’t sleep?’

‘Not a wink,’ Restio muttered. ‘Did you?’

‘Not bad,’ lied Spartacus. Restio was one of the few men who hadn’t been told about the escape attempt. Why would you care how I slept? A memory tickled at Spartacus, but Carbo, Getas and Seuthes joined him, and he put it to one side. ‘Come on,’ he said to Restio. ‘Some porridge in your belly will make you feel better.’

Stepping out into the yard proper, Spartacus felt a prickle of unease. The balcony above was lined with guards. He glanced sidelong at Restio, who appeared unconcerned. He wasn’t surprised that Carbo hadn’t noticed, but Getas and Seuthes were already scowling.

‘Practically every shitbag Batiatus employs is up there,’ hissed Getas in his ear. ‘And there are far more men on the gate than normal.’

Spartacus grunted. Someone’s told Batiatus, or Phortis.

They joined the queue for the porridge. Oenomaus was at the end of the line with his closest henchmen. One of them immediately engaged Restio in a conversation about money. Spartacus moved closer to Oenomaus, relieved that the Iberian could no longer hear what he said.

‘Seen the extra company we’ve got?’ growled the German.

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure. There’s nothing that we can do right now anyway. Let’s eat and see what happens.’

With a noncommittal look, Oenomaus turned his back on them.

Spartacus frowned. Were the Germans still with him? Oenomaus’ men crowded around him, preventing any further chat. ‘Seen Crixus?’

‘He’s over there,’ said Getas, jerking his head at the furthest benches.

Spartacus was about to leave the queue when something made him look around. Phortis was staring at him with naked aggression. Something’s definitely not right. Rather than make his way over to Crixus, he shuffled forward with the rest.

‘Look, it’s the latro! Come for some porridge?’ cried Phortis.

Silently, Spartacus picked up a bowl and held it out.

Phortis leaned over and grabbed it before the kitchen slave had even lifted his ladle from the pot. ‘I’ll take that,’ he said. Clearing his throat, he spat a large gob of phlegm into the dish. ‘Fill it up,’ he ordered. A moment later, he handed the steaming bowl to Spartacus. ‘With my compliments.’

Spartacus’ blood pounded in his ears, and all sound died away. He was so incensed that his entire world shrank to a narrow tunnel before him. At its end was the smirking Phortis, his lips moving in more insults. Spartacus felt his mouth twist into a snarl. It would be so easy. Just dash the bowl in his face, leap over the table and smash the whoreson to a pulp.

He forced his eyelids into a blink, and came crashing back to reality. ‘Thank you.’ Without meeting the Capuan’s gaze, Spartacus reached out and took the bowl. He didn’t see the two guards on the balcony behind him lowering their bows, nor the fleeting look of disappointment on Restio’s face.

‘Fucking coward,’ Phortis snarled.

We’ll see about that. Externally, Spartacus didn’t even register the insult. He walked off and sat down beside the four Scythians, who threw him eager grins. Carbo, Getas and Seuthes plonked themselves alongside. Their table was nowhere near those of Crixus or Oenomaus, but he didn’t dare approach them. From the corner of his eye, he could see Phortis still glaring at him. Spartacus dipped his spoon into the top layer of porridge and took a mouthful, swallowing the thick liquid without even tasting it.

‘Why did he do that?’ Oddly, Restio had joined him again.

‘The fucker enjoys goading me.’ What do you care, anyway?

‘Why?’

‘He’s tried to rape Ariadne once already,’ said Spartacus. ‘If I were beaten unconscious by the guards, I wouldn’t be able to stop him when he tries again.’ More likely, it would foil the escape attempt before it even started. If the Thracians were no longer part of the equation, would the other leaders risk their men’s lives? I doubt it.

‘Dirty bastard,’ said Restio sympathetically.

Spartacus ate some more porridge from the top of the bowl. When Phortis was finally distracted, he emptied the rest on to the sand by his feet. Spartacus’ nerves were wire-taut, killing any appetite he might have had. Ignoring Restio’s attempts at conversation, he sat in silence until breakfast had stopped being served.

Time for the trainers to appear, and the room containing the practice weapons to be unlocked. Long moments dragged by, and nothing happened. Carrying the empty porridge pot, the slave had vanished into the depths of the kitchen. Phortis was nowhere to be seen. It’s just a short delay. Yet Spartacus could see his unease mirrored on many of the gladiators’ faces.

He hadn’t sneaked a look at the guards for a short time. Seated under the walkway, he could only see the ones at the far end of the balcony. Glancing upwards, Spartacus’ heart stopped. Why did they have arrows notched to their bowstrings? They surely weren’t alone acting in such a manner. He could taste bile in the back of his throat now. We’ve definitely been betrayed.

All at once, things began to happen very fast.

Batiatus appeared on the balcony, Phortis by his side. Both men’s faces were hard. Cold.

Spartacus clenched his fists. He wasn’t going to back out now. Even if the Germans and Gauls don’t join in. He tensed, preparing to leap up and roar at the Thracians to run for the stairs.

There was a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. Spartacus glanced to his left, and was startled to see one of the Scythians hurtling over the table at him. There was no time to move. The bearded warrior crashed into him, driving them both backwards, to the sand. In the same instant, Spartacus felt something strike the Scythian in the back. The man grunted in pain, and went limp. Is he dead? Angry voices shouted and Spartacus could sense a struggle going on overhead.

Abruptly, the body was hauled off him. Getas and another of the Scythians filled his vision. The warrior offered his hand. ‘Quick! We go now. Quick!’

Spartacus scrambled up. ‘What the hell happened?’ he cried. The warrior who’d leaped on top of him lay at his feet. There was a filed-down length of iron protruding from the middle of his back. Restio lay beside him, with a similar weapon jutting from his chest. His mouth worked loosely, letting a thin stream of bloody bubbles fall. His face bore a faintly surprised look.

‘Iberian want… kill you,’ growled the second Scythian. ‘My friend stop him. Took… blade meant for you. When the others see… they attack the guards. We must go!’

‘Eh?’ Why would Restio try to kill me? But Spartacus couldn’t deny what his eyes were telling him. He knelt by Restio’s side. ‘Did you sell us out?’ The Iberian made no response. Fury consumed Spartacus, and he jiggled the base of the iron spike back and forth.

An animal squeal of pain ripped free of Restio’s throat.

‘You went to Batiatus?’

There was a faint nod.

‘In the name of all the gods, why?’

‘No one asked me to join,’ whispered Restio. ‘But Batiatus promised me freedom. I was to become one of the official betmakers at the arena.’

‘For that, you were willing to murder me?’ demanded Spartacus harshly.

A shadow crossed Restio’s face.

‘We must move!’ Seuthes’ voice was full of alarm.

‘Spartacus!’ cried Carbo. Any doubts that he’d had about joining the escape attempt had vanished. The guards were indiscriminately shooting down men he knew and liked. Bastards!

‘There’s no one worse than a man who betrays a comrade,’ snarled Spartacus, thinking of Medokos. ‘And there’s only one penalty for such scum.’ Placing both his hands on the piece of iron, he shoved it home.

Restio’s eyes went wide with shock and his mouth gaped open. A last, sawing breath left his lungs, and he sagged down on the sand, dead.

Spartacus jumped up, praying that he hadn’t left it too late. Getas, Seuthes and the three Scythians were bunched protectively around him, but the entire courtyard was in chaos. Gladiators ran hither and thither, shouting at each other, and without purpose. Waves of arrows were scudding down from above, striking down men at random. From the cells came the screams of the watching women. Ariadne!

‘Chloris,’ said Carbo, looking alarmed.

‘Amatokos will take care of her,’ barked Spartacus. ‘Look at the two sets of stairs.’ He was delighted to see Gavius and the three Gaulish leaders at the base of one, shoving their warriors upwards to the first floor and the all-important armoury. The other was deserted, however. No surprise. My countrymen aren’t going to act unless there’s someone to lead them. Spartacus’ gaze shot to the gate, and horror filled him. There was already a large pile of arrow-riddled bodies heaped before it. The eight guards there were giving a good account of themselves. With six men around him, Oenomaus was standing in the open, screaming encouragement at the rest of his followers. Many of the guards on the balcony were also concentrating their aim on the critical area, so few were prepared to obey. It’s a fucking slaughter. We have to smash open the armoury, or there’s no hope. ‘Follow me!’ he bellowed at the men around him. Then, repeating his cry in Thracian, Spartacus darted out from the walkway’s protection. He sprinted across the yard towards the second staircase, sensing fighters running to join him. Strangled cries rang out as some fell prey to the guards’ arrows.

‘There he is!’ screeched Phortis. ‘Bring him down!’

Gritting his teeth, Spartacus increased his pace. Reaching cover, he felt a heartbeat’s relief. He was also encouraged by the set, determined faces that surrounded him. As well as Carbo, Getas, Seuthes and the three Scythians, there were about thirty Thracians. ‘We need to go up, hard and fast. There are enough of us to rush the guards. Once some of us are armed, we’ll have more of a chance. Know that I ask no man to do what I will not do myself. I will lead the way,’ Spartacus shouted. Watch over me, Great Rider. ‘Who will follow?’ Pride filled him as every man present roared back his support.

‘You’re not to go first,’ declared Getas.

‘You’re too important,’ added Carbo fervently.

‘He… right,’ added one of the Scythians. ‘If you killed… we… fucked.’

To Spartacus’ amazement, the rest of the warriors shouted in agreement.

Shoving him to one side, the Scythian and his comrades swarmed up the steps. They were followed by Carbo, Getas, Seuthes and a tide of Thracians.

Spartacus had another chance to assess the greater situation. What he saw filled him with dread. Oenomaus was standing by the gate yet he was alone. Huddles of his Germans were visible under the walkway; occasionally, one or two of them made a break for their leader, but they didn’t get more than a dozen steps before being cut down. Crixus and Gavius appeared to have charged up the other staircase, but Castus and Gannicus remained at the bottom. Their wild eyes and desperate expressions told Spartacus that they had met with little success on the balcony above. I have to talk to them. There must be something else we can do. Ducking down as low as he could, Spartacus ran over to where the pair stood.

‘My men are being butchered up there!’ roared Castus.

‘The same will happen to yours,’ added Gannicus. ‘There are extra quivers of arrows stacked up behind the bastard guards. They knew exactly what was going to happen.’

‘It was Restio.’

‘The Iberian?’ cried Castus.

‘Yes. He’s dead. Forget about him,’ urged Spartacus. ‘We need another plan.’

‘You don’t fucking say!’

‘Without any shields and swords our men can do little — except die where they stand,’ said Gannicus. ‘What’s your plan now?’

Spartacus’ eyes flickered around the yard. The sand was littered with the injured and dying. Some men screamed for help that wasn’t coming. Others cursed, or cried for their mothers. Most lay completely still. Fewer arrows were falling, but the ones that did were better aimed. A Nubian went down, bellowing his innocence, with a shaft in his belly. Two more Germans tried to join Oenomaus, who had somehow obtained a shield and a sword and was now heroically attacking the guards at the gate. He remained alone — his men were struck down long before they got near.

We’re finished. Spartacus’ hope had all but disappeared when he saw the terrified-looking slave who’d served breakfast peering out from the depths of the kitchen. Insight struck him like a hammer blow. ‘There are weapons in there!’

Castus goggled at him. ‘Where?’

‘In the kitchen! Knives. Meat spits.’

‘By Belenus, you’re right!’ cried Gannicus.

Time to take control. ‘The attempt on the armoury is futile. We stop it at once,’ said Spartacus crisply.

‘Someone will have to hold the bottom of both sets of steps,’ Castus butted in. ‘The instant that he realises what’s going on, Batiatus will send the guards down to stop us.’

‘True. I’ll take a group into the kitchen to gather what we can. The rest can carry tables over to block up the staircases. The wood will give them some protection too.’

‘We’ll do that,’ snarled Gannicus.

‘As soon as my lot are armed, we’ll attack the gate.’ Spartacus’ lips peeled back into a snarl. ‘You will hear when we’ve opened it.’

Looking more heartened, Castus grinned. ‘Until then!’

‘Until then!’ Spartacus pounded back to his men. By this stage, the base of the steps was clogged with injured fighters. He shoved past and began to climb, his feet slipping on the slick, bloody treads. Reaching the first floor, Spartacus could see little but a mass of yelling Thracians heaving to and fro at the guards. Bodies — feathered with arrows or sporting savage sword wounds — lay everywhere. ‘Pull back!’ he screamed in Thracian and Latin. ‘Pull back!

’ Carbo’s head turned, and Spartacus gestured urgently. ‘Come on! I have another plan!’

To his relief, Carbo heard him. Understood him. Began telling his comrades.

Within moments, Carbo and the rest were in full retreat. Triumphant screams followed them as the guards pressed home their advantage. Spartacus tumbled down the stairs at the fighters’ head, and was pleased at the bottom to find six Gauls carrying tables. As the last men — two of the Scythians — spilled out of the staircase, Spartacus grinned. Following his instruction, four of the tables were heaved on to their ends against the opening, blocking it entirely.

‘Hold them there!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘The rest of you, follow me to the kitchen.’

Without explaining, he wove his way across the yard. Even without the arrows being loosed from above, it was lethal going. Thanks to the number of dead and injured, there was barely room to place one’s feet on the sand. A quick glance over either shoulder, however, told Spartacus that he had plenty of support. Carbo, Getas and Seuthes were right behind him. The guards can’t bring them all down.

‘Find anything that will do as a weapon,’ yelled Spartacus as they clattered into the kitchen, wild-eyed, chests heaving. Gasping with terror, the porridge boy retreated into a corner. Like wild animals descending on their prey, the gladiators seized whatever they could find: large-bladed cleavers, slender filleting knives and thick iron spits. A few even grabbed the heavy wooden pestles that were used to grind their barley.

‘To the gate!’ Spartacus spun on his heel and charged outside. ‘Quickly!’

He glimpsed Oenomaus under the walkway nearby. It was no surprise that he’d pulled back. He’s god-gifted still to be alive. The German’s face lit up as he took in Spartacus and his men charging forward. Roaring a battle cry, he ran out to join them. A mob of his countrymen followed.

Spartacus focused on the guards protecting the gate. They looked petrified. Finally, the tables have been turned. ‘Prepare for Hades, you cocksuckers! The ferryman awaits you,’ he shouted.

Two of them made a run for it at once. Led by Carbo, Getas and Seuthes, half a dozen of the men behind Spartacus split off and went for them like rabid dogs. The pair vanished, screaming, beneath a frenzy of blows. The rest of the guards by the entrance were made of sterner stuff than those who had fled. Four of them shuffled in close, holding their shields together while their companions stood to the rear, loosing arrows in low arcs overhead. Spartacus felt, rather than saw, several shafts as they hissed past him to sink into fighters behind him. His heart thumped madly in his chest, but he didn’t falter. Ten paces from the guards, he raised his cleaver high. His other hand gripped a large, heavy pan. ‘For Thrace!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘For Thrace!’

He couldn’t have chosen better words.

A threatening, primeval roar — the titanismos — filled the air around Spartacus as the warriors answered his battle cry. With faces distorted by fury, they smashed en masse into the guards’ shield wall. A pair of fighters each took a sword in the belly, but the impact drove their enemies several steps backwards; two of the guards stumbled and fell. They were trampled into the sand and hacked apart like slabs of beef.

Spartacus was facing one of those who’d kept his feet, a piggy-eyed individual whom he knew and disliked. Panicked, the man made the elementary mistake of swinging his gladius overhand at Spartacus’ head.

Sparks flew as Spartacus met the blow with his metal pan. ‘Eat this,’ he hissed, slicing the cleaver sideways into the guard’s face. The razor-sharp blade opened his flesh with ease. Powered by Spartacus’ rage, it smashed his teeth apart, cut off half his tongue and ripped out of his other cheek. A sheet of blood followed the cleaver, misting the air with tiny red droplets. Uttering an indescribable shriek of pain, the maimed guard collapsed to the ground. He’s finished.

Dropping his pan, Spartacus swept up the man’s sword. Leaping over the screaming heap, he threw himself at one of the guards with a bow. The terrified archer was desperately trying to notch an arrow to his bowstring. It was the last thing he did. With a smashing blow of his cleaver, Spartacus swept the weapon out of the way. He followed through, stabbing the man in the chest so hard that the gladius pinned him to the gate timbers.

Panting, Spartacus looked to either side. He could see no living guards, just a mass of grinning, bloodied gladiators. Getas was two steps away. Where’s Seuthes? he wondered. There was no time to look. ‘Open the gate! Go out on to the street, beyond arrow range. Wait for us there,’ Spartacus roared. ‘Castus! Gannicus! Gavius! Oenomaus! The entrance is secured.’ Through the din, he heard his call being answered. Good. Some of them will get away at least. Whether I — or Ariadne — will remains to be seen. ‘Getas, come with me.’ Spartacus grabbed one of the Scythians by the arm. ‘I must fetch my wife. Will you come?’ He was gratified by the man’s instant nod.

‘My friend come too. We protect you,’ growled the Scythian. A fierce grunt of agreement from the second man proved the point.

Spartacus spun and ripped his gladius free. The guard’s lifeless body slid down the gate, smearing a wide, red trail on the wood. ‘Follow me!’ Pushing his way through the throng, he sprinted for his cell. He had never felt such a pressing need for speed. The moment that the men holding the tables at the base of the stairs abandoned their posts, the guards would swarm into the yard. If he, Getas and the Scythians didn’t rescue Ariadne very fast, they’d all be killed.

What made his heart stop was not a tide of guards, however, but the sight of Phortis making his way, sword in hand, towards his cell. He’s going to kill her. ‘No!’ Spartacus screamed. But he was too far away. Too far to do anything but watch.

Phortis reached the door. Gripping the handle with his left hand, he flipped it open. ‘Where’s your man now, you whore?’

There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then something thin and black was tossed from within the cell, into Phortis’ shocked face. A cracked scream left the Capuan’s mouth, and he staggered backwards, clutching at his throat. His sword clattered to the ground, unnoticed.

Her snake! She threw her damn snake at him! Spartacus exulted as he reached Phortis, who had fallen to his knees. His face had already turned purple and his swollen tongue poked out of his black, bloated lips. Spartacus hawked and spat on the Capuan. Good enough for you. ‘Guard the door,’ he ordered Getas. He neatly sidestepped the snake, which had raised itself up into a threatening posture, and bounded into the cell. ‘Ariadne?’

‘Spartacus!’ She threw herself into his arms, sobbing.

‘It’s all right. I’m here. Phortis is dying.’

‘What happened? It all went wrong.’

‘Not now,’ he muttered. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Of course.’ Quickly, she grabbed up a fabric-wrapped bundle and a wicker basket from the bed. ‘I’m ready.’

Gods, but she’s brave. Taking her by the hand, he led her outside. He was relieved to find that although the guards had emerged into the yard, they were making little headway. Holding tables, Crixus and the last of his men were mounting a ferocious rearguard action, allowing more gladiators to escape. Time is still of the essence.

‘Wait.’

‘Ariadne!’

Pulling free, Ariadne began talking to her snake in a low, calm voice. When she had approached to within a few steps, she threw a cloth over it and swiftly grabbed it behind the head. Shoving it into the basket, she gave Spartacus a pleased look. ‘I can’t leave it behind. It saved my life.’

‘Let’s go!’

Together with Getas and the Scythians, they raced past Phortis’ corpse, following the walkway around to the gate rather than crossing the yard. Spartacus was about to shout at Crixus to pull back when the Gaul turned and saw him.

‘Where’s Gavius?’ asked Spartacus.

‘Dead. The remainder of his men have broken.’

Spartacus hid his disappointment. ‘Time to go then.’ Quickly, he led Ariadne out on to the street, which was filled with gladiators. Among them were Castus and Gannicus. He saw Carbo’s face there, and those of Amatokos and Chloris too. Considerably less than a hundred. So few. ‘All men with weapons, to the front! When Crixus and his lads come out, I want a false charge at the guards. Show them that we mean fucking business. It’ll remind them that Batiatus wields no power beyond the ludus. Clear?’

They roared their agreement back at him. Barely armed or not, the gladiators’ bloodlust was up. Spartacus felt the same, but he calmed himself.

They waited on either side of the gate as the Gauls withdrew in good order towards them.

‘Crixus! Tell your men to split in the middle as you come out,’ Spartacus shouted. ‘We’ll drive the bastards back.’

Crixus bellowed something in Gaulish.

With eager faces, the gladiators around Spartacus moved forward a step.

‘Hold!’ He lifted his gladius high. ‘Hold!’

They did as he said.

Crixus and his men shuffled backwards out of the ludus.

The guards’ instinct kicked in, and their advance slowed.

The Gauls split apart, opening a central corridor.

‘Let’s show them that we’ll rip their hearts out!’ roared Spartacus. ‘Now!’ He charged forward, and was followed by a heaving mass of gladiators.

The guards took one look at them and came to a dead halt. Then, as one, they began retreating into the ludus.

Spartacus burned to pursue them. Instead, he slowed down and stopped. ‘Halt,’ he cried. ‘They’re scared enough. Back to the street!’ Keeping his face to the front, Spartacus began reversing. On the balcony, he could see Batiatus screaming abuse at his men. Shout all you like, cocksucker. They have more sense than to die needlessly. In forlorn twos and threes, the fighters who had been left behind stood and watched as the escaping gladiators withdrew. They had their chance, thought Spartacus harshly. ‘Pull the gates to. The dogs won’t dare open them again for a while.’

The four other leaders were waiting for him. They exchanged a brief, wary look.

‘Which way?’ demanded Oenomaus.

‘Carbo?’ cried Spartacus.

‘Vesuvius is that way.’ Carbo pointed confidently down the street. ‘If we skirt around the walls, we can join the main road to the south of the town.’

‘Good,’ said Spartacus.

Oenomaus was already issuing orders to his men. The three Gauls were doing the same.

Spartacus glanced at Ariadne, who nodded her readiness. About twenty men were waiting for his command. The majority were Thracian, but Carbo was there too. He also spotted at least one Greek, and a pair of Nubians. Another woman in addition to Chloris. And, of course, the two remaining Scythians. I don’t even know their names.

His eyes darted around. ‘Where’s Seuthes?’

Getas’ face darkened. ‘He didn’t make it.’

‘What happened?’

‘One of the guards at the gate was playing dead. He stabbed Seuthes from below.’ Getas’ fingers touched his groin. ‘Seuthes didn’t have a chance. He bled out as I watched.’ His face twitched with grief.

Spartacus’ gaze flickered back to the gate. Sleep well, brother. Then, out loud, ‘Time to move.’

He loped off. Ariadne ran beside him. Behind them came Getas, Carbo and his men. In a swarming tide, the remainder followed.

From the vegetable garden, the cock crowed again.

Spartacus forgot his sorrow for a moment. At least he’d never have to listen to the damn bird again.